


Cutlery

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Dom/sub, Dominance, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Light Bondage, M/M, Spanking, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 19:15:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whilst on a log cabin vacation, Spock makes soup. ...Bones doesn’t like soup.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cutlery

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Holiday ‘drabble’ for anon [on tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/66814629392/musing) who asked for domestic-D/S Spones. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The old fashion stove in Leonard’s cabin is utterly preposterous. It contains a multitude of needless buttons and settings and absolutely no ability to intuitively decide what is the correct temperature or cooking method for each respective dish. The soup Spock is currently cooking is set at ‘five’—a number which he, after much deliberation, determined himself. The timer is a mystery in and of itself. It was easy to determine how to use, though again, it’s a convoluted process. It requires him to both set and decide on the allotted time himself, which, in his opinion, negates the need for it in the first place. The entire contraption is far more archaic than Spock properly gave his boyfriend credit for.

When he agreed to take his extended Earth shore leave with Leonard, he had some idea that he would be doing it ‘sans damnable technology,’ as Leonard promised. This still isn’t quite what Spock expected. He stirs the pastel broth around the large metal pot, wondering vaguely how such ill-designed instruments ever managed to survive the centuries. 

His ears, superior as they are, pick up the front door opening—none of the other open doorways in this little wood cabin have anything to shut. Boots shuffle inside and are kicked off, and something heavy hits the floor—kindling, most likely. Spock continues to stir his pot. He’s done almost everything Leonard ‘asked’ of him, and he’s right where he’s supposed to be. The soup is almost ready. 

More trundling sounds waft in from the living room, and Spock hopes, though it isn’t particularly Vulcan to _hope_ , that Leonard is finally setting a fire. Spock’s thick-skinned and not fussy when his preferences aren’t met, but Earth, particularly during the winter, is so much desperately colder than Vulcan ever was. Add to that that Spock is almost entirely naked, only his front covered in a thin, white apron, and he does have to make an effort to stifle his shivers. Even his feet are empty, his hands constantly changing their grip on the wooden spoon around the pot simply for an excuse to keep them moving, to keep them from freezing up. The ties of the apron are in a tight bow at the small of his back, the ends trailing down his ass, holding the meager fabric as close to his skin as possible. It covers much of his chest, not quite wide or tall enough to reach his nipples, and it reaches to about mid-thigh. If he’d known that this would be for him, and his sole source of heat, back when they were supply shopping, he would’ve been a bit more discerning. As it is, he’s cold. The warm soup should help. 

The warm soup is the one thing not part of the plan, and when Leonard finally comes through the doorway, Spock doesn’t need to turn around to feel those sharp eyes on him. He keeps stirring his pot. He knows what Leonard looked like when he left—dark jeans and a blue button-up—and Spock’s sure Leonard looks much the same coming back. 

Leonard pauses for just that minute, then strolls right up behind him, and Spock’s breath holds for a fraction of a second while strong arms wrap around his middle. He’s pulled against a firm chest. He resists the urge to lean back into that warmth; he stays stay rigid and retains all his dignity. Leonard’s hands roam over his front, smoothing down the apron, and Leonard’s rough voice purrs into his ear, “How’s domestic life suiting you, Spock?” There’s a bit of a snicker in it: always is. 

Being Leonard’s housewife is dull, tedious, and overwhelmingly inadequate. Perhaps that’s why the first wife left. Instead of that, Spock diverts the conversation to, “The Starfleet-provided accommodations would have sufficed.”

Leonard snorts. His head rests over Spock’s shoulder, the slight stubble on his chin scratching Spock’s bare skin. In the absence of Jim, Leonard tends to let himself go. “Only you could miss those damn cubicles. You’re not even finding the slightest enjoyment in good ol’ country life?”

“I find many modern conveniences to simply be more... efficient.” Spock chooses his words carefully, and he lets his spoon fall to the side of the pot, letting his hands fall to his sides. Leonard can be unpredictable, and it isn’t wise to have them near the heat of an active burner. 

There’s a slight bulge pressing against his ass that tipped him off. The rough fabric of Leonard’s jeans scratches his skin. It wasn’t quite there when this conversation started, but it’s growing now, and Leonard’s hands grip the front of Spock’s apron hard, pushing him back against Leonard’s crotch. Long, calloused fingers are spread across his own clothed cock, not as flaccid as it should be. No matter how ill-conceived Spock might find this life, it’s hard to not be interested with a man like Leonard McCoy behind him, holding him in and feeling him up. Leonard tilts his head to nip at the shell of Spock’s ear, musing into it, “What are you making me for dinner, baby?”

“Plomeek soup.” Spock can feel Leonard stiffen immediately, but he isn’t able to lie. And that was the reaction he was expecting. 

He considers stirring the pot again, but instead remains still while Leonard processes the information. If Spock’s calculations of the day’s little jabs and insults are correct, this should be enough to finally set the game in motion. He glances sideways, observing Leonard’s hard face through his lashes. 

Leonard moves suddenly. One of his hands flies to Spock’s hair, fisting in it so tightly that Spock doesn’t have time to stifle his gasp of pain. Leonard tugs his head back and hisses, “You little green-blooded monster—you know damn well I don’t want _Plomeek soup_ for dinner. Half the point of staying on Earth was to rob you of your ability to synthesize that disgusting alien shit.” There’s a slight edge to his voice that says he might _know_ Spock’s done this on purpose, but that isn’t going to change a thing. Spock remains quiet. 

Spock says nothing in his defense, makes no move to leave Leonard’s hold, and he waits patiently for his punishment. Leonard waits anyway, then shoves him against the stove—Spock’s hands dart to the handle on the oven door, steadying himself so as not to fall across the hot burner and spill the soup everywhere. Leonard grinds into him, pinning him in place, and Spock wonders absently if he’ll even get to taste the soup he spent the last hour making. Leonard’s fingers slip out of Spock’s hair. 

They head for the spoon resting in the pot, and Leonard taps it on the side to shake the moisture off. He raises the spoon to Spock’s mouth, ordering, “Open up.” The fact that Spock technically outranks him doesn’t matter here. 

Spock opens his mouth and lets the wooden handle be shoved between his teeth like a makeshift gag. More likely, Leonard just needs his hands for other things. Spock dutifully holds onto the spoon while his lover is busy elsewhere. 

Next, Leonard reaches around Spock to grab both of his wrists, and Spock doesn’t fight that either. His hands are pulled behind him, Leonard stepping back to make room, and they’re pushed together against Spock’s tailbone. Spock leaves them there. The bow holding his apron on is tugged loose, and Leonard promptly begins to bind Spock’s hands together with the apron ties. They’re not exactly Vulcan-proof handcuffs, but Leonard must know that Spock’s too well behaved for it to matter. His wrists are fastened snugly in place. 

Then Leonard grabs Spock’s hair again, and this time the spoon keeps his clenched jaw from releasing any gasps. He’s dragged away from the stove, turned on the spot, and Leonard shoves him towards the table. Spock stumbles forward, still on his feet, until Leonard pushes his back and he topples over, chest hitting the surface. It isn’t quite tall enough; Spock’s legs have to spread to keep his feet firm enough on the floor to stay sturdy. It’d be easier with his hands, but they remain tied behind him. He wonders if he can spit the spoon out against the table, now that there’s a place to put it, but he wasn’t told to do so, so he doesn’t. 

He looks over his shoulder instead, eyeing Leonard evenly. Spock tries to never give away on his face just what their games do to him. He doesn’t betray whether or not he thinks he deserves his punishment, nor whether or not he’ll enjoy it. He’s definitely about to be punished. The lecherous look on Leonard’s face promises as much. Leonard’s eyes are roaming all over Spock’s body, lingering longest on his ass, held up in the air. Spock subtly shifts his feet further apart. With that smug look so common to his handsome features, Leonard glances at Spock’s face, but Spock remains as expressionless as ever. 

Leonard leans over him and grabs the spoon—Spock opens his mouth to let it fall out. Leonard chuckles, “Good boy.”

Leonard takes a minute to straighten, holding the spoon out against Spock’s ass and play-swinging it through the air a few times. “Not good enough to spare you, but at least you can behave when you’re caught. It’s a shame Jim doesn’t spank you right on the bridge every time you sass him or raise one of your freak eyebrows at him. If he knew how easy you take your punishments, maybe it’d happen.” Spock lifts an eyebrow right now, though Leonard can’t see it from this angle. Leonard often mocks Spock’s subservient role with their captain, but then, he _is_ the captain. 

Spock suspects it might have to do with the illogical human tendency towards jealousy, though it’s particularly needless in their case. Spock would never under any circumstances allow anyone other than Leonard McCoy to spank him. 

That’s when Leonard chooses to finally act; he draws the spoon back, and Spock can hear it whipping through the air before it hits him, slashing hard across both cheeks of his ass. Spock grits his teeth to stop any reaction. He keeps his chin against the tabletop, looking down, away from his master. He can practically hear Leonard’s smirk. The next blow comes quickly, bearing down from the other side. The spoon is hard, solid, and unforgiving, painful to be whacked with. Fortunately, Vulcans have a high tolerance for pain, and should anything go wrong, Leonard is, as he so often likes to remind everyone, a doctor. He gives only what he knows Spock can take, and the next blow is quite as brutal as the first two. 

They march on like that: a quick procession of whacks that sting and make him want to wince. Spock keeps track in his head, focusing everything in his body down on that one area, the reddened flesh slowly being marked. He doesn’t cower away from it; he keeps his ass high in the air, presenting himself for the whims of his lover. On the tenth slap, Leonard barks, “Count them!”

So Spock, breath hitching slightly on the harsh eleventh blow, “Eleven.”

“One,” Leonard corrects, snickering as he slaps Spock again, inevitably restarting the count. He does like to play his little mind games, though half the time they don’t make any sense to Spock. Their proverbial bedroom is the one place Spock doesn’t argue. 

Spock counts, “One,” while the thirteenth hit burns across his skin. On the fourteenth, he says, “Two.” Another and he says, “three,” and it goes on in a repetitive, scalding march that somehow isn’t the least bit tedious. Though it becomes more and more difficult to say his counts without reaction, Spock is enthralled by every blow, grateful for every smack across his ass. His only true complaint is that he’s being hit with wood instead of Leonard’s hand, which, he knows, would stop to grope him between hits. As it is, he’s on his own, off in his own world, counting to himself as his ass begins to ache and the slaps come quicker and impossibly harder. His cock is pinned against the table, but the smacks do seem to reverberate down, smashing him into the polished wood over and over. Spock’s feet strain to hold him, and his fingers clench subtly, growing tense with the mounting pain. 

He reaches sixty, and Leonard interrupts his count to ask, “Think you’ve learned your lesson yet, hobgoblin?” He doesn’t stop hitting Spock, though he does start to vary his smacks, landing on first one cheek, than the other. A few linger down across the tops of his thighs, and Spock’s not sure if it hurts more or less to have non-tenderized flesh hit. His entire backside will be nothing but red soon. He takes the breadth of two smacks to think of his answer. 

He decides as they approach sixty-eight that his ass is more than ready for Leonard’s cock, and he dully tells the table, “I believe I have.”

Leonard simply snorts. The spoon stops to swirl around Spock’s cheeks, digging in between his crack, rough and uncomfortable, before it smacks him again. “That’s the best you’ve got? I don’t think you’ve learned anything. We’ll continue.” Spock lifts another eyebrow— _‘we.’_

He wearily announces, “Seventy.”

Leonard chuckles, deep and cruel. Spock’s limbs stiffen. “I think you mean one.”

So Spock, beginning to question his pseudo-bedroom submission, repeats through grit teeth, “One.” Again, he’s smacked across his smarting ass, and he doesn’t quite manage to catch his grunt. “Two.” He’s hit again. “Three.”

He’s hit over and over, and he obediently chants his count, aware that his ass is getting steadily sorer, and it might be crossing the line to where the sex tonight will be painful. He’s sure Leonard has the ability to soothe his bruises, but he’s not sure if they’ll be applied or not. It will still be pleasurable, he knows, but not solely so. Perhaps he should’ve _begged_ , as Leonard mostly likely wanted. Spock, unfortunately, still isn’t much good at begging. 

So he endures another thirty blows, another forty, he gets to fifty and his feet have to shift, his cock slipping into that stage where it could soften at any second, though it’s hard at the moment, quite hard. He hits sixty and he presses his forehead to the table, likely ruining his bangs with the beads of sweat that have begun to appear in select areas of his body. On seventy, his fists are very tight, close to breaking out of their confines, just like his lips are close to stopping their count and diverting to the desperate pleas he’s sure Leonard wants. 

But Leonard stops at seventy-five, rubbing the spoon against him again and asking, voice now thick with obvious lust, “That enough for you, _Commander_?” Spock’s too raw to be nettled by the sarcasm in Leonard’s voice. The handle of the spoon is now rubbing between his burning cheeks, prodding sharply at his hole. “Think you’re ready for the second part of your punishment?”

The second part always involves Leonard’s cock, so Spock is more than willing to breathe, “Yes.” He’s smacked again, and he grunts and says, “Seventy-six.” Leonard laughs in approval. 

Leonard tosses the spoon aside—Spock can hear it clatter to the floor. Leonard’s strong fingers slip around his neck and jerk him up—Spock nearly chokes, his air already weak from panting through his spanking. He’s held back against Leonard’s body enough for Leonard to grind into his ass a few times, growling, “You’ve been a very bad boy, Spock. So bad, in fact, I think you should be sent to bed without your supper.” Spock’s eyes flutter closed, lips parting. Even if Vulcans weren’t able to go days on end without food, he’d be very much okay with that. 

He’s shoved towards the open doorway, the one at the back of the kitchen headed for the stairs, and he stumbles towards it, hands still fixed behind his back. He does his best to straighten and toss his hair back into place, breathing steadily and trying to still be _stoic_ , though he knows Leonard robs him of that every time. He doesn’t look back.

As soon as he rounds the corner and steps onto the first stair, he jerks his hands free of their bonds, the fabric snapping under his strength. He rubs his wrists, and he wonders idly what other punishment this will bring him. But he doesn’t intend to stay in just an apron all night—it’s a useless human pretext that’s already served its purpose. Around the corner, he can hear the soup he slaved over being poured down the sink. 

He climbs the stairs towards the bedroom, each step more painful than the last, and each step only drives the anticipation for Leonard’s cock thicker into his head. He earned the rough sex coming his way, and though he’d never, ever admit it, Spock is looking forward to getting brutally fucked by his doctor more than anything else Starfleet could ever offer him.


End file.
